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shadowandlightt · 6 months ago

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Snow and Flame | Cregan Stark X Velaryon!reader|

Sent to treat with Lord Stark, the young Targaryen prince and princess receive devastating news and must return to Dragonstone, only the princess is sure she'll see the young Lord once more.

Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, wasn’t what you expected. He was warm, and kind, not stone cold and hardened by the cold of the north. You expected him to be hard, hadn’t expected the warm welcome that you received with your brother Jace. Your mother, the rightful queen, sent you here to treat with the young Lord of the North and remind him of the vow once made to her father, your grandsire.

“Seven Hells,” You shiver, “Is it always this cold here?” “Yes, my princess,” Cregan laughs, “This is only summer snow though, it is much worse in the winter.”

You shiver once more, wishing for the warmth provided on Dragonstone, in the south. Yet you were glad to be here with your brother and the young Lord of the North. You were dressed in enough furs to outfit many in the south. But here they were needed.

“I would hate to see winter snow then, my lord,” You sigh.

“Winter snows aren’t so bad, Princess,” Cregan replies, “We find ways to stay warm.”

“Enough, Lord Stark,” Jace chides, “Remember you are in the presence of a princess.”

“Of course, forgive me, my Prince.”

You glare at your brother, hating that he cut off the Lord. You were a lady of course, a Princess nonetheless. But you were not accustomed to hearing such things, given that you grew up with brothers. They forget that you are no delicate flower.

You feel a heat in your belly at the way Cregan looks at you, desire rising up in you. You’d never felt this way before, never having been around men your own age since leaving King’s Landing as a child.

“Perhaps you should show me those ways in which you stay warm,” You blurt out before being able to stop yourself. Though you quickly recover, “Forgive me My Lord, that was out of character for me. I blame the long journey.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here at Winterfell instead of making the journey to the Wall,” Jace warns.

“No, I shan't stay behind,” You shake your head, “I was sent here to help secure the alliance between our two houses and I’ll do just that, Jace.”

He smiled, throwing his arms up in defeat. He did not dare say you sounded very much like your Queen, and Mother. You looked very much like her, only with dark hair instead of the trademark silver Targaryan locks. You looked like your father, you assumed, as well. Lord Strong. You hadn’t voiced your own suspicions, not even to your brothers. But you knew in your heart that Harwin Strong was your father, and that he loved you very much.

“It’s an equally long journey to the Wall, are you sure you’re up for it Princess?” Cregan asks.

“Yes, my Lord Stark, I believe I can handle a two week’s ride north.”

You were readying to mount your horse when a young boy came running between your legs, latching onto you. A little laugh escaped your mouth as your arms came around the small boy to hold him. He couldn’t have been more than two or three, similar to the ages of your youngest brothers.

“Who might we have here,” You laughed, picking up the small boy and holding him in your arms, “Don’t fret little one, we’ll come back.”

The little boy nuzzled into your neck, seeking warmth you surmised. Lord Stark couldn’t help but notice the way you beamed holding his young son, and the way he went to you instead of his own father.

“Forgive me, Princess,” Cregan said, reaching for the boy, “Tis my son, from my late lady wife.”

“No apology needed, Lord Stark,” You hum, holding tighter to the boy, “He reminds me of mine own brothers. Tis no trouble, really.”

The little boy mumbled something into your neck, causing you to laugh aloud once more. Cregan finally pried the young boy from your arms, holding him just as close to his chest.

“We’ll only be gone a few weeks, Little Rickon,” Cregan tells the little one, “When you’re older, you’ll come to The Wall too. Now, great your Prince and Princess, little lad.”

“Oh, no need for that,” You say before Jace can get a word in, “He’s only little. There will be plenty of time for formalities as he grows.”

Jace smiles at the young boy, poking his red little cheek to earn a smile from the wee little one. Cregan smiles down at his young son before putting him down and instructing him to go back to his maid, who was to look after him whilst Cregan was away.

You weren’t sure how your dragon would deal with you being gone for so long, but you wouldn’t miss out on this. You’d always wanted to see the Wall. So you endured the long ride on horseback, which was almost enough to fell you.

By the time you reached the Wall you were unsure if you could walk. Jace had to help you off your horse. You were thankful for the layers that added some padding and acted as a way to hide your limp.

“I did warn you Princess,” Cregan sighs.

“I’m fine,” I groan out, “Just haven’t been on my feet in some time.”

He grins at you, but leads you and Jace towards the lift to the top of the Wall. You were warned that the men who take the Black are wild and vicious, but that you would be safe as long as you stayed with Lord Stark. They would not dare go against him.

You vaguely listen as your brother and Lord Stark talk about politics during the ride north. You laughed along with them as Jacaerys made crude jokes. Something you were used to, but Cregan did not know of you and your brother’s humor. He’s a Northerner, something different from you. You were a fair southerner, not used to the chill and cold. He’s born and bred for it.

“Too cold for you, Princess?”

You like the way he says your title. A hint of mischief in his voice. You wanted to know what he would do if you were a low born girl, with no honor to protect. Would he take you? Make you his own? You yearn for him to take you. More than you expected. But you were a lady, a Princess at that. It wasn’t for you to want such things. Your marriage would be arranged for political gain, you were second in line for the throne, not the heir. Luke was heir to Driftmark, being the second son. You were nothing but a pawn, and you knew it.

“Not at all, Lord Stark.”

“Please, Cregan, if you will.”

A blush rose to your cheeks, though you were lucky enough that the wind would hide it, cheeks already red enough. He held his hand out for you as you reached a platform. The sight took your breath away. The wide expanse beyond the wall was a sight to see, as was the wall that guards it. Your mouth is open slightly as the gasp leaves you.

“Tis a sight, I know,” Cregan says, standing between you and Jace.

“It’s beautiful.”

You weren’t sure how the words left your lips, or if they were even given permission to leave. You were not mad about it though, words often had a way of escaping when it came to you. You often got in trouble for it.

Jace and Cregan began negotiations once more whilst you took in the view of the wall. You heard Cregan promise some two thousand men, which made you smile even wider. The North would bend the knee to your mother, and serve their rightful queen.

“A raven, My Lord, with urgent news from Dragonstone.”

You turn, facing Cregan as he reads the missive, watching as his face falls, looking to Jace before handing him the message. Jace’s jaw tightens and his hands begin to shake. Your brows furrow, reaching beyond Cregan for Jace’s shoulder.

“What is it?” You question, brows knitting together even tighter.

“We must return home,” His voice is tight, “Luke-he’s gone.”

You felt as if the world was crashing around you. Surely there was a mistake, he was simply flying to Storm’s End. He was only meant to treat, and return. Luke knew how important this was to your mother’s claim, he wouldn’t have jeopardized it. He wouldn't have gotten himself killed over it.

“Surely the raven is mistaken,” You scoff, taking a step back. Your back collides with Cregan’s chest, “Lucerys is fine, I’m sure.”

Strong, somehow warm, hands grip your shoulders, holding you in place, “No, Aemond and Vhagar killed him.”

“No. No I refuse to believe that,” Your head shakes, “Aemond disliked Luke after what happened, but he wouldn’t kill him. He couldn’t.”

“Princess,” Cregan says softly, barely audible over the sound of the wind.

“No!” You yell, feeling your chest cave in, “No!”

Tears freeze against your cheeks as you begin to cry. Without thinking, you turn around and bury yourself in Cregan’s chest. He stands still for a moment, stunned by your actions before wrapping his arms around you and holding you tightly.

It only takes moments for you to compose yourself. You were two weeks away from your dragon, a week and a half at best. Days away from Dragonstone and your mother. All you could think of was how scared little Luke had to have been. He was all alone, high in the clouds, no doubt in the middle of a fierce storm. You should have opted to go with him instead of Jace. Jace could have handled this without you.

“We should go back,” Jace instructs.

You sniff and nod, backing away from the Warden of the North. You instantly miss his warmth, internally scolding yourself for thinking such a thing at a time like this. You instead lean into Jace, accepting your brother as your rock until you could return home.

When you say goodbye to Cregan several days later, you can’t help but hope this isn’t the last time you see him. He promises his men once more, and watches as you and your brother climb onto your dragons.

The flight home is wildly fast, pushing your dragons to carry you faster than you thought they could. As if they could sense how quickly you wished to return home to Dragonstone, they allowed you to push.

By the time you return, even you are out of breath, emotions swirl wildly in your chest. You want nothing more than to go straight to your mother, but Jace tells you that he’ll give the report, seeing you were in no shape to do so.

You retreated to your rooms, saying nothing to Baela as you passed her. All there was, was your misery over the loss of your brother. You screamed and cried his name, mourning in the only way you knew how. You wanted to go to war, slay the devil Aemond and Vhagar. But you knew in your heart it would be a fool’s errand. You would be the one who was slain. Vhagar was much too big for any of the dragons with riders here on Dragonstone. Vermithor was the only one who could potentially stand against her, yet the Bronze Fury was riderless still.

You wail even when Jace finds you once more, holding you tightly in his arms. You both cry for your little brother, who was so full of life and love. He did not deserve to die, and you find yourself praying to the gods to take you instead. You fall asleep in your older brother’s arms, having cried everything you had to cry.

You expect to see Luke when you finally close your eyes. To dream of his horrific final moments. But instead you dream of white snow, an ice wall, and the stoic northerner who threatened to consume you. When you woke, tears still shining in your eyes, you vowed that it would not be the last time you saw Lord Cregan Stark. You would see him again, and find if he thinks about you as much as you seem to be thinking of him.

#cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark #cregan stark x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfiction #cregan x you #hotd cregan #hotd

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musicallisto · 3 months ago

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· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

#f1 #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #carlos sainz #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #cs55 imagine #cs55 fic #cs55 x reader #cs55 #mywriting #this got so much longer than i had originally planned lol <3

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